I have more books than I’ll ever be able to read.
Book-buying binges are my most prominent vice.
I’ll often buy books I have no intention of reading because I love the author.
It sounds like I couldn’t possibly love an author if I don’t intend to read their books, but you know how it is – your best friend goes on TV or the radio or a podcast to talk about their thing and you already know everything they have to say on the topic.
I bought Wim Hof’s latest book. It’s gorgeous. But I know what’s in Wim’s book without even having to pick it up. I’ll buy his stuff, no matter what it is, without thinking. I love Wim. I want to support him.
I just bought some of Lionel Shriver’s books. The lady who wrote We Need To Talk About Kevin. Shriver, along with Douglas Murray and a few other recurring writers, is the main reason I subscribed to The Spectator. Sometimes I buy that magazine and don’t even read it, just to support the people who run it. Shriver gives voice to my opinions, often controversial ones, and I’m so grateful that she’s writing and publishing. So I want to support her work continuing.
I buy books as a way of giving thanks and expressing gratitude.
I’m a good patron, good reader, good fan to have. If I love you, I really love you and I’m loyal as hell.
Recently I’ve been making sure I buy time when I buy books.
So I don’t just go into a bookstore and leave with an armful and no plan to read them. Whenever I buy a book, I portion out specific time in my schedule and make sure I will read it (or at least some of it).
Whenever you buy books, envision yourself actually buying blocks of time.
I also do this thing where I forbid myself from buying an author’s books until I have at least finished and thoroughly enjoyed one of their books.
I make myself wait.
Then, as a reward, I’m allowed to get a couple more of their works and starting exploring their oeuvres.
I’ve done this with Yukio Mishima, P.G. Wodehouse, Agatha Christie, Yasunari Kawabata, Haruki Murakami, Raymond Chandler, Svetlana Alexievich, and James Baldwin.
I listen to poetry.
Preferably watch videos of the poets reading their own works.
I can’t wait for Louise Glück’s poems to arrive, because poetry on the printed page is like heaven. But I currently have over ten tabs open with the poet poised and ready to read me her own work.
The meaning is in the poet’s voice – their real voice.
So I’m listening to Louise Glück today. I’m also listening to Aaron Poochigian, who is one of my favourite modern poets (and he has a great voice). Unfortunately, I can’t access Shakespeare’s real voice, but I find Sir Patrick Stewart does a great job of reading his sonnets.
And I’ll read books aloud myself.
Chapters of Dickens formed and sculpted in my vocal chords. Nothing’s quite so rewarding.
This is one of my favourite things about the Hardcore Literature Podcast – once we’ve done the deep dive analysis, made the poetic practical, and extracted great psychological principles and life tips from the great books, I get to read and record the works aloud. It’s how I get my kicks.
I also do long-term reading.
It’s taken me six months to finish Leo Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina.
I can’t believe people binge this book in a few days.
I’ve lived with the characters. I know Levin and Vronsky and Anna inside out.
And you know what I did when I finished this weighty tome? I wrote the date after THE END, a snapshot impression, and then turned straight back to page one: ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord….’ “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Delicious.
And then I grabbed Nabokov’s Lectures on Russian Literature, watched some courses from The Great Courses, dug up what Harold Bloom had to say about Tolstoy, and purchased the nine-hour-long 1977 BBC adaptation of Anna Karenina.
The experience is not over yet. Not even close.
When I read, I make my books filthy.
I tear pages out of Chekhov’s plays and paste them on the wall.
I scribble and underline.
I write tons of notes and marginalia and do this style of reading called synoptic reading where everything you read and every insight that comes to you hooks onto everything else you know to be true about the world.
And, ultimately, I live in the world.
Imaginative literature is not a surrogate experience for me.
It is life itself.
Along with love and service to others, it’s the thing that keeps me living.
